


one word after another until it's done

by bowlingfornerds



Category: The 100
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, writer!bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5969779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowlingfornerds/pseuds/bowlingfornerds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m a writer and when it gets close to my deadlines I neglect taking care of myself so you’ll pop in my house every so often to make sure I’m doing okay’ AU"</p><p>It's literally just that but with Bellamy being inept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one word after another until it's done

**Author's Note:**

> My head still hurts from being sad and today I bruised my leg so here, have more fluff.  
> Not edited, not beta-ed, barely even read through after writing it. Enjoy.

Bellamy had been writing for about six hours straight.

He didn’t _know_ he had been, but he had, and the sun had gone both up and down in the sky before he got up to use the bathroom, and found it to be four in the afternoon. He frowned at the clock, before glancing back to his laptop. He scrolled up the document he’d been working on, and it made sense, all of a sudden. He’d written twenty thousand words and edited the first half of his book. _Huh, that’s where all the time went._

He went to the bathroom anyway, and stopped back off in the kitchen after. Bellamy frowned when he glanced into the fridge, finding it bare, and looked around for a mug of coffee instead. However, he hadn’t done the dishes in three days and resorted to pulling out the last bowl he could find, from the back of the cupboard – a joke present from Clarke two years ago, bright pink with an image of a Barbie doll on the inside – and made his drink in that instead.

Then he went back to work.

It continued on like this for another day. He worked for about twelve hours, played six hours of Portal 2 to calm down, and then slept, in and out, until his alarm woke him up again at ten. He never lived his life like this normally; Bellamy Blake was an organised human being, who disliked dirty dishes, got up at eight AM on the dot, and showered once a day.

But, his book deadline was less than a week away, and he’d scrapped the majority of the project to rewrite it, when he thought of a better plotline, and decided to delete a character all together. So, he was a little back-ended with work, and the first thing on his mind was getting it all done to the best of his ability – so he was pretty sure that he let his hygiene drop a little, and maybe hadn’t eaten much at all, and probably hadn’t seen actual sunlight, either.

Also, he lost his phone on day one, and so hasn’t been responding to any of the messages that he’d received. Which meant that, as he settled into the sofa to start the next six hours of writing – his main character, Elizabeth, still had another ten thousand words to go before he could lead it on a cliff-hanger and start on the next book – Clarke had been volunteered by the rest of his friends who were worried for his safety, to come and check on him.

Bellamy didn’t know that she knocked on the door.

He was too focused on his fingers tapping away at his laptop to hear the knock, and then her keys fumbling in the lock, and finally the door opening. He only noticed her presence when she sighed loudly.

“Well thank fuck you’re alive,” she greeted. Bellamy jumped, looking over to his friend. Whilst he was in the same thin-t-shirt-and-joggers combo that he’d been wearing (and sleeping) in for the past four days, she was in skinny jeans and a leather jacket, with her hair perfectly tied up. Okay, let’s be fair, Bellamy _always_ thought Clarke looked perfect, and even in his sleep-deprived state, he was noticing it now.

Clarke moved forward, studying his blood-shot eyes, and the grease in his hair before sighing once more.

“When’s the deadline?” She asked, immediately catching on.

“Three days,” Bellamy replied, looking back to his laptop. On the page, Elizabeth had stopped mid-sentence, due to his stopping of typing. He groaned, forgetting what he was about to write. Clarke picked her way through his usually tidy apartment, and sat on the other end of the sofa.

“Why didn’t you tell us? Octavia thought you were dead?” He quirked an eyebrow in response.

“Why isn’t she here then?” Clarke rolled her eyes.

“Because she’s three hours away, dumby.” Clarke got up, raising her eyebrows at the Barbie bowl with coffee stains on the table, but didn’t say anything as she picked it up.

“If she thought I was dead, she should’ve driven the three hours,” Bellamy grumbled, dropping his eyes to the screen again. Clarke wandered about the apartment, opening the curtains – “fuck,” Bellamy grunted – and picking up the dirty dishes as she went.

“When’s the last time you showered?” She asked as she wandered into the kitchen. Bellamy scrunched up his nose in thought before shrugging.

“A while ago.” She poked her head out of the door again.

“Go shower.”

“Clarke, you’re not the boss of me,” he told her, trying for a dry look but ending up yawning.

“I am when you’re not in control of all of your mental facilities. Now, go.” They were locked in a staring competition for a moment, before Bellamy grunted reluctantly and saved his work. He pulled himself up from the sofa, and stretched before heading off into the bathroom.

The shower, admittedly, did a good job of waking him up, and getting rid of the ripe smell that he had assumed was coming from the plates he hadn’t yet cleaned. Afterwards, he emerged in fresh clothes – okay, still joggers, but it’s _something_ – to find his apartment empty. Bellamy just shrugged, settling back into the sofa and picking up his laptop. He had to finish the story. His aim was to finish it that day, and edit it the next and the day after that. Then, when the actual editor received it, they would have a story Bellamy was _actually_ proud of – not whatever shit he had before.

He was just starting to get back into the swing of things when the front door opened once again, and Clarke entered, carrying a plastic shopping bag. She huffed as she slipped off her shoes by the door.

“Five pence charge on shopping bags,” she told him, shaking her head as she went into the kitchen. “When did that happen?” Bellamy raised his eyebrows.

“Like, six months ago,” he replied. “It was a big thing – how do you not remember this?” Clarke shrugged and he could hear her opening and shutting cupboards as she put the groceries away.

“I’m not a big newspaper person,” she said.

“It was on TV, too.”

“I’m not a big _news_ person,” Clarke corrected. Bellamy heard the switch of the kettle, and glanced at his work before heaving himself up. He moved to the kitchen and watched as she opened the bag of bread, and a tub of butter.

“What are you doing?” He asked.  She glanced over, before looking back to the task at hand.

“Well, you’re not very good at looking after yourself when you get to your deadlines,” she told him. “So, I’m going to do some looking after, and you can finish your work.”

“You don’t have to do this, Clarke,” he replied, furrowing his brow. She nodded, and Bellamy watched her locks of blonde hair bob with the movement.

“I know. Now write – you’ve only got three days.” He sighed, but did as he was told, making his way back to the sofa and sitting down. A minute or two later, she placed a clean mug of coffee next to him, and handed him the sandwich. He looked at her questioningly. “I suppose you haven’t eaten in a while considering there’s nothing in the cupboards.” He didn’t reply, just ate the sandwich whilst she waited, and handed the plate to her when he was done.

Over the next hour, Clarke washed the dishes and found his phone, texting around to their worried friends that he was alive, working, and now clean. When she had to go, she kissed his cheek and Bellamy stopped working for a moment after she shut the door, to try and remember how it felt.

He knew he was in too deep with her – they were best friends, they’d known each other for five years, dating wasn’t on the table. Bellamy knew he’d written Clarke into many of his characters, too. This was his fourth book, and the first three all had characters that reminded him so simply of Clarke; the blonde halo of hair, the icy eyes, the stubborn determination, the glare, the smile, the laugh. It was all there. Elizabeth was an artist, like Clarke, and had the same beauty mark above her lip. He wondered if she’d ever put them together; if she’d ever pick up on some of the lines being direct quotes – but that wasn’t for him to think about now. He had to write. He had to get this done.

At six in the evening, whilst he played Portal 2 (okay, so he’d completed the game twice but it was still his favourite), Clarke let herself back in to his apartment and raised her eyebrows at him.

“I thought you’d be working,” she said.

“I like to give myself breaks,” he replied. It wasn’t strictly a lie, but his break was just six hours long and went well into the night, before writing again until he fell asleep on his keyboard. But Clarke didn’t have to know that.

“When was the last time you ate?” She asked as she slipped her shoes off, and padded through his home. He shrugged, which meant that he hadn’t since she made him a sandwich, and she nodded, going into the kitchen. Clarke ended up cooking them both dinner, and sitting with him on the sofa, watching old _Friends_ reruns.

“I don’t need someone to take care of me,” he said quietly, as she got up to leave, an hour or so after. She heard him, though, and nodded.

“I know,” she replied. Clarke returned the next day, anyway, and made him shower, and eat, and put on clean underwear. Bellamy recognised easily that she cared; that she wanted him to be healthy as well as finish his work, so he didn’t protest and let her sit on the other end of the sofa and do some work, and the same the next day – the last day before he could submit his work before midnight – and it was comfortable. It was natural. Having his feet on her lap was normal, and Bellamy was going to miss it a little when he would be able to look after himself again.

Clarke sat with him, as he added the finished document as an attachment to an email. He was going to send it to Marcus Kane and then he was going to sleep for a day straight. He paused as his mouse moved to the ‘send’ button.

“What’s the hold up?” Clarke asked quietly, her chin resting gently on his shoulder. Bellamy swallowed. He’d had the same issue with his other three books, but he didn’t like to admit it.

The simple fact was- “what if it’s not good enough?” The room was quiet and the two of them stared at the email. They had ten minutes until midnight, but Bellamy knew Marcus wouldn’t mind it being a little late. He, _would_ , however, mind it being an awful book.

“Of course it’s good enough, Bell,” Clarke said at last. “I’ve read your writing – it _moves_ people. Don’t you remember all those fan letters you received? Those kids being inspired by your writing? That’s all you. Your work is more than good enough.” He cleared his throat, but that was all. Bellamy’s eyes dropped to his hands, poised on the keyboard.

“What if this one doesn’t live up to those standards? I put so much effort into this, Clarke – I had finished it completely before going back and starting at the beginning again. This could be awful – I could just completely tear down what I’ve built up, just with this book.” He watched her hand slide into his, and Bellamy lifted his eyes to hers. She was already studying him, a gentle smile across her lips, her hair messy and tied back – there were purple hues under her eyes showing that she was tired, but she looked happy, alive, _sure._

“Anything you work this hard on is going to be fantastic,” she promised. “This book isn’t going to be a flop – it’s going to be brilliant, it’s going to make people think and make them happy. Bell, this is your _job_ , you’re a _writer_ – if you care about what you’re writing, then it’s good, no matter what.”

He watched her for a moment, checking her eyes for the truth and the promises that she was holding out for him. Clarke didn’t waver – God, she _never wavered._ The corners of Bellamy’s lips quirked up into a smile, and she beamed back.

“I love you,” he said, and he didn’t care that they’d been best friends for five years, or that he’d never expressed his feelings towards her before. He loved her, she was there for him whenever he needed it, she was his perfect person; someone he couldn’t imagine his life without, couldn’t imagine his hand not fitting perfectly into hers-

Clarke just grinned more. “Good,” she told him. She darted forward, landing her lips on his and pushing into his body. Their hands slipped away from one anothers’, just for Clarke’s to return to his shoulders, his neck, her fingers carding through his hair, while his land on her waist, gentle as if he were afraid to break her.

He’d imagined kissing Clarke so many times – written it into his books how he’d hoped it would go. But it was nothing like the real thing; nothing like the push and pull, the smiling, the way she breathed him in and let him take charge before surging forward and letting herself direct their tongues. She felt so right under his hands, under his tongue, and when she pulled away, he followed.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, her hands cupping his cheeks and her smile bright, yet calm and beautiful. They stayed in the moment for a little longer before she nodded towards the laptop, still sitting on the coffee table in front of him. “Now send off your manuscript.”

He eyed her for just a moment longer, before clicking send. He was still worried, but it was hard to feel afraid when she was smiling at him. Bellamy turned back to her, and pressed his lips back up against hers, pushing her back onto the sofa. Clarke returned the kiss just as eagerly.

 

In the future, Bellamy would write a lot of books and he would have a lot of deadlines that landed him with working all day, in his pyjamas, with very little sleep. Luckily for him, Clarke would always be there to make him shower and cook his dinner, and promise him that as long as his writing was loved by _someone_ , then he’d done a good job.

 

**The 100**

Ever since a devastating nuclear war, humanity has lived on spaceships far above the Earth’s radioactive surface. Now, one hundred juvenile delinquents – considered expandable by society – are being sent on a dangerous mission: to re-colonize the planet. It could be their second chance at life… or it could be a suicide mission.

Elizabeth was arrested from treason, and now she faces life without rules, without space - but she's  _free._

_For Clarke,_

_The book may have been finished,_

_but I would have probably starved myself to death in the process._

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & Kudos are loved and appreciated, thank you.


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